I used to write poetry.

Coleridge once said "poetry is for the very young", hence the theory of the Byronic complex. 

The young, vibrant, often violent male intelligence forging its way, etching out life through pain and poetry.  

But once grown he becomes silent or mute and happy or complacent.  Maybe the truth was that poetry 

is either for the very young or the very old. And age is not chronological, but rather attached by relative means 

to all sentiment and feeling. And then we can always write. If we choose to.

And I could have written you a thousand letters with my fallen thoughts upon this paper...

I used to write poetry...

The Beauty of Partiality

I love the beginnings and the end.

And in the middle,

I love the room to question.

It is a playground to haunt.

A mysterious gaunt  

That becomes so alert with understanding

As it is depicted.

The more distressed it becomes,

The more complex and stunning it appears.

You could live a life out of pure irony,

Many have.

You could send letters to editors

Explaining it all,

But the world not would be able to interpret

The way that you so vainly address

Every issue with such ease,

As if you regretted it already,

But were hiding it so well.

If prudence is just,

Then why have foresight?

And why is it so bad to live miserably

When half the world

 Is constantly restraining their regret?

I believe in the joy of sweet, stinging sorrow.

As if catharsis were granted

In step with meaning.

Then how could we not

Hold on to a half-placed world

So thoroughly incomplete

That the only way to achieve anything

Is to mistake it?

We live amongst the disposed.

Writers’ Bed

Of yourself upon a hard bed

Where our faith does not exist.

I took that stack of papers

Down to your desk,

And I glanced at your work

Despite your request

To never let loose the meaning or intent.

You, silent player of what is right,

You, the hero of the night,

Christ has found his better brother

In you tonight.

You choose the way to leave.

It was nice of you

To give so much of yourself

To the imagination.

This way the softness

Can linger in feigned lust.

And the eagerness can vanish

unnoticed.

Mismatched syllables

Take effort to roll onto the page.

I am glad to give you that.

Syncopated misfortune.

It is something, at least.

Do with my musing as you will,

You always did.

---EKN 9/16/04